


Marshmallow as Metaphor

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor Elizabeth Weir billed herself as a woman without a tell.</p><p>Major John Sheppard knew there was no such thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marshmallow as Metaphor

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this ages ago, but Cora Clavia wanted to see it.
> 
> Probably pretty early in the series . . .

 

 

Doctor Elizabeth Weir billed herself as a woman without a tell.

Major John Sheppard knew there was no such thing.

Still, even an inveterate gambler like him had to admit she was tough. She had no facial tics. She did not fidget. Her fingertips never tapped out a rhythm on a tabletop, nor did her knee jog to an internal drummer. Her preternaturally erect posture never wavered.

But he was a man with an eye for detail. He knew where to look. He’d found her out within a month, though she denied it. Six months on, she was still denying it. Six months on, it hadn’t let him down once.

Until now.

And he really wanted to know.

She’d dismissed Betty with The Glare she usually reserved for McKay (and, on one notable occasion, Teyla’s cleavage). Liza had sent her stalking on ahead of him, never mind the fact that he was supposed to be leading this expedition. Beth had come up completely empty.

He was starting to wonder if it had anything to do with her given name at all when inspiration suddenly struck:

“. . . Lizzie?”

Something—an awkward step, an evil spirit, or just sudden, wild certainty—gave the exclamation a little more oomph than he’d intended. The winning pair of syllables ricocheted around the corridor.

She spun to face him, a moment too late to hide it: The tiny telltale ripple of well-tailored silk, a casualty of the barest twitch of her left butt cheek. A little voice inside noted that drawing The Glare twice in one night could lead to a world of pain. He broke into a trot, delivering an affectionate pat to his trusty informant as he passed. He liked the world of pain. People knew him there.

She considered the possibility of coming to a dramatic halt. He had patted her ass. Surely that called for some kind of stage direction. Unfortunately, her god-given feminine right to a scene was usurped just then by the sound of movement within one of the rooms off the corridor. The last thing she needed was to be caught chasing after Atlantis’s own Lothario in her pajamas.

She jogged after him, rounding the corner just in time to see him take the next left. She picked up the pace, covering the silent length of the hallway in record time. The thin tread of her slippers was no match for inertia combined with Ancient floor-waxing technology. Careening around the corner, a minute squeak escaped her. She went into a skid that left her heading straight for a bank of the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows. She braced for impact, arms crossed in front of her.

“Easy, Lizzie!” he drawled hooking an arm casually around her waist just in time to save her from kissing glass.

“I . . . I’m fine.” She found her footing and batted his hand away, as much annoyed by her own petulance as by his amusement. “Don’t call me that.”

“Yes ma’am,” with a mini-salute and smirk, he turned to move on down the corridor.

Elizabeth held her ground.

“John.”

The Glare and The Voice. He stopped without turning.

“John,” she could expend a little gentleness, now that he was hopelessly pinned to the spot. “What is this?”

The Glare, The Voice, and a Question.

“Which this?” He turned to her, his cute face working overtime.

“John, I’m . . . “ she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m very tired.”

“Oh, this,” he indicated the hallway with a gesture. “A vacation.”

“Vacation?”

“Vacation,” he edged closer to her and, risking the loss of a hand, hooked his fingers over the silk waistband of her pajama bottoms. He tugged suddenly, throwing her off balance again and catching her around the waist as her arms flew wide, flailing for support, “Let me take you away, Lizzie,” he whispered, ducking his head to nuzzle the baby-fine hair at the base of her skull.

“John,” the lone syllable was a compromise—a détente between the familiar, warring urges to rake her fingernails over that smug confidence and to lay herself entirely bare to his uncomplicated desire.

“Lizzie,” he whispered, mocking her breathless tone.

“Can’t we,” she stuttered back a step, trying to clear her head. “ . . . I’m cold, and I’m tired . . .”

“Which is why,” he tugged at her waistband again, “You need a vacation.”

“What I need is a cup of tea and some quality time with a book.” She snapped, pulling her pajamas free of his grip.

He deployed The Pout, and she instantly regretted the move.

“I was on my way there, you know,” she hated the defensive edge to her tone.

“Where?” He turned away, suddenly interested in the starlight on the water.

“Your quarters.”

“Ah . . . a ‘report’ that couldn’t wait?” He asked with uncharacteristic vehemence.

The excuse never varied on the nights she came to him. Its feebleness brought her nearer the blushing, stammering girl he suspected she’d been before she’d conjured up Dr. Elizabeth Weir.

“No,” she stepped beside him, laying her hand on top of his where it rested on the railing. “I wanted to see you.”

“Really?” He glanced sidelong at her, half wondering if he was in trouble.

“Really. Is it that surprising?”

“Nah,” he threw his shoulders back, flexing his pecs with a grin. “Who can blame you?”

“Do you see why I make up excuses? You’re insufferable.” She bit back a smile, landing a playful punch to his solar plexus.

“Yeah, well, who wants suffering?” He said, shielding his stomach from further abuse.

“It’s beautiful here at night,” she said after a while.

“Just at night? I think it’s pretty cool 24/7." He breathed on the glass and idly doodled in the condensation.

“I suppose so. I just don’t have much time to appreciate it during the day,” she scowled at his X-rated handiwork, rubbing it out with her sleeve.

“Whiiiiich,” he slyly grabbed her hand and began inching backward down the hall. “Is why I wanted to take you on a little trip.”

She turned helplessly back they way they’d come, “But I’m . . .”

“Cold and tired. I know, I know. It’s all taken care of,” he reeled her in from arm’s length. “C’mon. It’s not far.”

She gave in with a smile, “Lead on, MacDuff.”

“MacDuff . . . isn’t that one of Beckett’s little helper gnomes?”

* * *

 

“The kitchen?” Elizabeth unconsciously stepped closer to him, not liking the dull, malicious light glinting off the cookware.

“Not just the kitchen, little Miss ‘Are We There Yet?’” He scolded, leading her to dark corner near the back.

To be fair, she seldom visited the inner workings of the kitchen where she became less popular with each cut in rations. Her approval rating had hit bottom just that morning. There were rumors of a dartboard.

John fumbled at the wall until a low hum and soft glow greeted his palm. A narrow panel slid to the side and disappeared, revealing a small room beyond. She stepped in behind him, grabbing hold of his belt loop for guidance in the dark.

“Stop smirking.”

“It’s pitch black! How do you know I was smirking?”

“You’re always smirking.”

“Not always. Sometimes I pout,” he turned, digging in his pocket.

“Yes, more’s the pity. John are there . . .” she winced at the glow suffusing the room, “Lights?”

The room was a good-sized pantry with several levels of shelves running the length of either side. Each shelf was filled with containers and packages in all shapes and sizes, all obviously of Ancient design.

“John, is this all . . . “She turned a cylinder toward her, her other hand reaching for a silver envelope. “Is this food?”

“Looks like. Can’t vouch for the flavor, but it’s fresh enough from what I’ve seen so far,” He dropped to his knees and busied himself setting up the things he’d stowed there earlier. He unfurled a standard-issue bedroll, smoothing out an incongruous, pale yellow chenille throw tucked inside.

“This is incredible! Do you realize that . . . “She moved swiftly along the length of the shelf, making calculations in her head.

“Lizzie!” He grabbed an ankle as she sailed by, “That’s not why I brought you here. Vacation, remember?”

“But this food . . .”

“Will be here in the morning,” his hand worked its inside the leg of her pajamas, tickling the back of her knee just there. “Can I do my surprise now?”

She knelt with an incredulous laugh, “Surprise? Other than this?”

“Well, yeah!” With a flourish, he struck a match, holding it to a shallow metal dish. The basin flared up dangerously close to the underside of a shelf for a moment, then settled down to a merrily burning little fire. “Camp fire!”

“And smoke inhalation! Very romantic!”

“I never kill on the first date,” he promised, grabbing at her hand to prevent her from standing. He pulled her close and whispered, “Ancient Chinese ventilation systems.”

“I see you’ve thought of everything,” she scooted to lean against the wall next to him. “Though it’s hardly our first date.”

“Oh, but it is,” he reached across her for a bag hidden in the corner. He hauled it on to his lap and began unpacking.

“First date! I think this very blanket would have something to say about that,” she said peering at the neat piles he was assembling on the blanket in front of him. “When did you steal my blanket?”

“Like a week ago . . . “ he shot her a severe look. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“I sleep,” she retorted. “Just not in my bed, lately. Or in yours, I guess, since you seem to have forgotten our nights of _grande passion_.”

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” he ripped open another intriguing package and hid the contents on his far side.

“But it’s still our first date,” she persisted, craning her neck to have a peek.

“It’s my first date with Lizzie, “ he explained, dropping a brief kiss on her nose as he turned her face away.

“Of course! The mythical Lizzie!”

“Mythical? That’s not what that sweet butt . . . “

“John!”

“Well, it’s true!” He met her glare without flinching. “Look me in the eye and tell me that your father didn’t call you Lizzie.”

For the first time in six months, by the dancing light of the world’s smallest campfire, Elizabeth Weir blinked first.

“Forgive me, John, for not wanting to bring my father’s pet name on a date,” she said sourly curling her knees up and slipping underneath the throw.

“First date,” he corrected, ignoring her high-handed tone. “But yeah, let’s leave dad out of it. Say . . . he doesn’t have a shotgun or anything like that does he?”

“Oh yes! And worse. Military, you know.”

“You’re kidding, right?” John stopped dead.

“No, I’m not,” she said carefully. “Does that surprise you?”

“Well, yeah! Oil and water, Israel and Palestine, Yoko and Cynthia, world famous diplomats and bang bang military guys!”

“John and Lizzie?”

“Exception that proves the rule,” he said, lifting the deftly arranged platter from his side. “Madame, dinner is served.”

“Are these . . .” Elizabeth eyed the neat stacks and one tantalizing, fluffy pile with wonder. “They can’t be!”

“But they are. Mostly.”

“S’Mores. How?”

“We’re camping out. Gotta have s’mores!”

“John, this is . . .” she inhaled deeply and only just managed to catch herself before the inevitable drool. “This is real chocolate!”

“That it is, Lizzie, that it is.”

“And marshmallows?”

“You got it, “ he looked sheepish. “The graham crackers are some kind of Ancient biscuity thing, but they’re not too bad.”

“Where on Earth . . .”

“Atlantis. You know, that joke just never gets old for me.”

“That makes one of us.” She eyed the plate hungrily. “Do I want to know where all this came from?”

“No ma’am. It’s a military matter. Certain personnel seem to have had some trouble following regulations regarding provisions. It’s taken care of,” with a flourish, he produced two long twigs from the bottom of his pack.

“Sticks! Real sticks!” Elizabeth clapped gleefully.

“Yeah, from the mainland.” John grinned, bemused. “Who knew Lizzie was such a cheap date?”

“Atlantis is a marvelous, literally awesome place, but the Ancients skimped on nature a big,” she picked through the pile of marshmallows, inspecting several critically and rejecting them.

“Besides . . . ah ha! Perfect,” she found one that satisfied and slid it on to the end of her twig, “Twigs are an essential part of the s’more process.”

She kicked her way free of the blanket to kneel up in front of the fire. She eyed the basin carefully, searching for the perfect angle of attack as the small blaze teased a glow into her pale cheeks.

John grabbed a marshmallow at random and hauled himself to his knees opposite her. Jamming his choice haphazardly on to the stick, he rotated it delicately high above the flame, watching for the telltale shade of perfect brown.

Elizabeth watched his marshmallow with interest. Bringing her nose level with the edge of the basin, she gave a firm nod and thrust her twig into the heart of the fire, setting not only the marshmallow, but also the first few inches of the twig ablaze.

“Hey! Hey!” John jerked his marshmallow back as if to compensate. “You’re burning it!”

“I’m toasting it,” she objected, peering at her watch for 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1. She extinguished the flame with a puff.

“Ok, new rule: I do the cooking,” he sniffed returning his twig to the fire with extra care.

“Fine,” she agreed amiably, savoring the sizzle of charred sugar on chocolate as she assembled her sandwich. “Everything except s’mores, you cook.”

* * *

 

She’d commandeered his somewhat distended stomach as a pillow, but he wasn’t complaining. Not when nothing but a bit of pale yellow fluff separated him from the unfamiliar grace of her naked skin.

“Tell me about the other woman in your life,” she murmured, turning on her side.

“Isn’t that kind of . . . tacky . . . on a first date?”

“Yes, I hear kissing’s right out, too,” she said, casually trailing the blanket up the length of her leg, leaving it bare. “Besides, Lizzies’s a voyeur.”

“Well that’s . . . hot. I think,” his fingers absently leapt the chasm from one collarbone to the other.

“So tell me about her,” she repeated, swatting his hand away as the caress devolved into yet another attempt to prove her ticklish somewhere.

“Well, them, actually,” he propped an arm under his head.

“Them? Really,” she said, swallowing a nanosecond of panic.

“Oh yeah.”

“So tell me about your cast of thousands.”

“Thousands. “ he flicked her nose. “I’m not some kind of . . . hussy. Just two.”

“Your devotion is touching, I beg your pardon,” she raised her clasped hands to him dramatically. “Won’t you please tell me about these lucky women.”

“Well, since you asked nicely . . .” he captured a pinky between his teeth. “Who first?”

“Pick your favorite.”

“Can’t. They both have . . . qualities to recommend them.”

“Chronological then. Who has priority?”

“Ah, that’d be Dr. Weir, then.”

“Doctor? Very imposing, “ she flipped on to her stomach, resting her chin in the hollow beneath his ribs. “What’s she like?”

“Well, I only see her at her place.”

“Command performances?”

“She just likes home-field advantage. Makes here wild. Ferocious. And demanding,” he smiled up at the ceiling, “but she gives as good as she gets. Probably better.”

“Sounds like a control freak,” she said, studying the topography of his ribs with sudden interest. “Domineering. A lot of men wouldn’t like that.”

“You didn’t date much back on Earth, did you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Her head suddenly hove into view above him.

“Don’t hit!” He laughed, bringing his hands up to shield his face.

“Well?” She settled on her forearms next to his head. The Glare was back.

“I’m just saying,” he rolled on to his side to face her. “For some guys, that’s Christmas and birthday and a little somethin’ extra all rolled into one.”

“And for you?” The Glare was rapidly replaced by avoidance of eye contact.

“Has its ups and downs.” He watched her face intently in the ruddy glow of the dying fire.

“Ah . . .”

“For example, she’s big on prepositions.”

“Prepositions?” That raised an eyebrow, but his expression was pure as the driven snow.

“Prepositions. You know: Against. On,” he reached beneath the blanket, walking his fingers up her spine with each word, “Down. Over. Behind.”

“And that’s,” she found the mechanics of breathing very complicated all of a sudden, “An up?”

“Definitely an up.”

“And the down?”

“She’s kinda hard on the furniture.”

She snorted, thinking of the weeks she’d gone without a desk chair, too embarrassed to requisition a third.

“Maybe you just need to take direction better.”

“Maybe she needs to use some of her big words instead of these little noises,” his fingers kneaded into the twin columns of knotted muscle at the back of her neck, “Kinda like those.”

“Mmmm. Maybe,” her face pressed into the blankets as she maneuvered closer to his hand.

The fire gave a final hiss and pop as the last ember collapsed into ash. John ceased his massage, drawing a groan of protest from deep in the folds of the bedroll. He propped himself on one elbow and gave it a halfhearted stir with the remains of his twig.

“Fire’s done for. And it’s . . . ” he rolled away from her, reaching for the watch hanging over the top of his boot. Somehow her hand was there first. She snatched it away just as his fingers closed over the backlight.

“Don’t look,” she said, moving to fill his field of vision. “Not yet.”

“Ok,” he agreed. “But it might get cold in here.”

“I’ll share, “ she lay back on the bedroll, lifting a corner of the blanket invitingly.

“Very generous of you,” he edged closer to her, sliding an arm behind her neck.

“Isn’t it, though?” She settled her head on his shoulder. “So, this Dr. Weir . . . she doesn’t mind that there’s another woman in your life?”

“They don’t really cross paths, so it’s not a problem.”

“Really? And why’s that?”

“Elizabeth always comes to me.”

“Ah. Elizabeth. And what’s she like?”

“A little schlumpy,” his left hand instinctively deflected a punch intended for his solar plexus.

“Schlumpy! I don’t recall seeing that in the OED.”

“It’s not a bad thing. It’s just . . . Well, like, she’s got this thing for her hair. Pushes it all back from her face and it stands straight up on top of her head. And these cute little granny glasses that slide right to the end of her nose . . . “

“Sounds fetching,” she said grumpily and turned on to her other side.

“Fetching! Exactly,” He rolled with her, throwing an arm around her waist to pull her against him. “And she just . . . unfolds and kind of sprawls out.”

“Very graceful.”

“No, it is!” He kissed her ear. “It’s just . . . it’s like there’s no mystery. No image to see through. Just Elizabeth.”

“And that’s good?”

“It’s good. It’s comfortable. It’s like I don’t have to worry what to talk about, because I know she likes sappy old romance stories, but spy novels, too. And she gets football more than she lets on, but she lets me ramble. And she fits right here,” he finished, bringing his knees up behind hers and curling himself around her.

“Like this?” She asked pulling his arm tighter around her waist.

“Yeah, kinda like this.”

“That’s good then,” She said after a long pause.

“Lizzie?” He shook her shoulder gently. “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?”

“No,” She murmured indistinctly. “I don’t sleep.”

“Well, you should. Let’s get you . . .” He untangled himself. “Hey!”

“Hey what?” She looked up at him innocently.

“You’re pouting! That’s my thing!”

“I never pout, “she said, trying not to laugh as she pushed her lip out dangerously far.

“Well, you’re trying to pout. It needs some work.”

“Tell me about Lizzie, “ she pleaded.

“Lizzie?” He studied her face, then settled back on to the bedroll, apparently satisfied with what he saw there. She rolled to face him, snaking one leg between his and around one calf. “Lizzie’s a born explorer. She wants to be out there, in the universe. It makes her crazy that she’s gotta stay behind, just holding down the fort.”

“It’s a big fort.”

“It is, and she’d rather be camping out.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Lt. Col. Bedhead 4-EVAH


End file.
